


Hitting the Mark

by DorianFlynn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Flirting, Lust, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Shooting Range, Strip Target Practice, Stripping, Target Practice, Watchpoint: Gibraltar, gun use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorianFlynn/pseuds/DorianFlynn
Summary: McCree and Hanzo agree to a friendly competition.  But when it comes down to the wire, who will win and what will be their reward?





	Hitting the Mark

McCree’s zipper purred as he pulled it down.  Hanzo saw skin, a lighter shade than the burnt copper of McCree’s arms and chest, and short, curly hair that cascaded like water down a cliffside.  And then white elastic flashed into view, covering up the final piece of the puzzle.

His pants fell to his ankles, revealing a pair of fitted boxer briefs, which highlighted the thickest part of his thighs.  The muscles in his leg flexed as he pulled his feet from his jeans and tossed them to the side.  As he fixed his hat, Hanzo met his eye.  Hanzo jerked his head away, cursing himself silently.

The Overwatch facilities had multiple target ranges, but the rooftop range at Gibraltar was his favorite by a long shot.  It was built on the roof of a building by the coast and was set up so archers fired while facing the cliff face, so stray arrows didn’t go careening off the side.  It also happened to be the least used, and therefore most private, option.  Most days, that is.

Hanzo shivered as the night breeze swept across his chest.  The sake sat warm in his stomach, but the chill was getting to him.

He scoffed quietly.  So far, the cowboy had missed nine shots, but he was only now down to his underwear, having successfully argued that his chaps, sarape, belt, and holster counted as individual items of clothing.  Meanwhile Hanzo had missed four and was standing in his underwear; a pair of snug, navy blue trunks.  He made a mental note ensure an even playing field before starting another one of these contests.  That, or keep score using numbers, like civilized people.

McCree slowly stretched in response to the cold.  His arms reached back, broadening his chest, and the lights reflected off the metal prosthetic with bright flashes.   His chest hair was black as ink.  It reminded Hanzo of the horse hair brushes his father had kept in his study. His fingers twitched at his side, and he ran his hand against his underwear, wiping away something he couldn’t quite feel.

“Quite a nippy breeze we have tonight, isn’t it?” he said.  “Makes your hair stand on end.”

“I would have assumed you would have adapted by now,” Hanzo said, dryly. 

McCree smiled.  “Well, I’m used to wearing enough leather to dress a calf.  I’m not built to survive this weather.”

Hanzo didn’t reply.  He pulled his arrow out of the bullseye and returned it to his quiver.  Their target was a wooden circle with black and white rings painted on its surface, and a red bullseye at its center.  McCree had taken the paper targets he normally fired on and taped one over the wood.  Otherwise they would never know where his shots had landed.

Now bare legged, McCree walked over and replaced the sheet.  “Looks like we’re down to the wire.”

“Only because you overdressed,” Hanzo said.  McCree chuckled, and the two walked to the other end of the shooting range.

“Reckon neither of us are overdressed now,” he said, stretching again.  The muscles in his back shifted, like a cat preparing to pounce. 

“Say,” he said, walking backwards so he was facing Hanzo again.  “How do you feel about making it interesting?”

Hanzo cocked his brow and stopped just past the fifty-foot mark.  “How do you suggest?”

“Well we’re at the last notch, so we can’t up the ante any further than we already have.  And we’re evenly matched at the moment.”

“Hardly,” Hanzo scoffed.  “You’ve missed twice as many shots as I have.”

“Which is  why I suggest we go all in.  Double or nothing.  And to make it fair, I’ll fire five more shots than you.  If I make them all, then we’ll be even.  But if I miss, or if you miss, then we have a winner.”

Hanzo considered this, quietly resuming his march.  At the beginning, he had resented how much more walking their contest required than his usual practice sessions, but as he grew colder, the opportunities to move around were welcome.

“Hardly double or nothing if the stakes stay the same,” he said, finally.

McCree nodded, smiling.  “Which is why I suggest we change the grand prize from a  eyeful to a  _ mouthful _ .”

Hanzo stopped in his tracks.

“Are you suggesting…” Hanzo said, a rush of excitement flaring from the warmth in his stomach.

McCree shrugged.  “If you’re up for the challenge.”

He breathed slowly, as his mind traveled back to the heavy pouch he has seen hanging from the front of McCree’s underwear, and bouncing as he walked.  His stared at the approaching railing where his bow was perched and imagined himself pressed against it, breathing in the hearty musk of McCree’s skin.

“Well,” McCree said, shocking him back to reality.  “You in?”

Hanzo took a silent breath.  He wanted to accept.  It felt like cheating; a way to back himself into his own desire.  He opened his mouth, but his pride stoppered it.  His instinct to bite took control.

“Your hat,” he said.

“My hat?” McCree asked.

Hanzo nodded.  “If I win, I want your hat.”

McCree seemed shaken.  He sized Hanzo up, arms crossed, and then shook his head.  “You would take away a man’s a most prized possession.”

“What is a trophy but what is most prized?” Hanzo replied, but he could feel the sentiment sinking somewhere unpleasant.

McCree shook his head again.  They finished their walk, and McCree removed his revolver from the holster he had laid upon the concrete, looking it over. 

“You have yourself a bargain,” he said.  His words were sober, but Hanzo swore he could see something creeping at the edge of his lips.

McCree leaned against the bannister, reloading bullets into his revolver one by one with the dexterity of an artist.  The railing was too short for him, so he leaned against it with effortless charm. 

Hanzo picked up his bow and stepped up to the line.  Blocky white text read that they were 150 meters away from the target; about one and a half football fields away.

Hanzo breathed in and out slowly.  The target was so far away he could barely see the different lines. When he squinted, they blurred together into shades of grey, with only the red bullseye to keep his focus.

He breathed in.  He breathed out.  Nervousness swelled through his chest, drowning out his desire.  He set his arrow on his bow and drew back until it’s sharp end was just beyond the wood.  

He breathed in.  He breathed out.  Fire.

The arrow whistled through the air, grew silent and then clicked into place.

McCree whistled himself, nodding.  His revolver clicked closed, and he held it upwards.

“My turn?” he asked.  

Hanzo stepped to the side, and McCree took his place at the line.  He adopted a different stance than he had be using, with one foot firmly behind him instead of both parallel to the line.  He brought the gun level to his face, and his fingers fell into position, relaxed.

The entire station went quiet as he prepared, so much so that Hanzo could hear his own heartbeat, or McCree’s or both.  And then he fired.

Each shot rang out in close succession, not half a second after the last.  In the distance, Hanzo saw the target shake, the unsecured edges of the paper he had attached flying up as the bullets landed.  Hanzo hastily remembered to cover his ears, and the final few shots didn’t ring with the same ferocity as the first.  When his barrel was empty, McCree paused and waited, and then put away his gun, careful not to touch the smoking barrel.

Too full of nervous energy to wait, Hanzo jogged towards the targets without waiting for McCree.

He approached his target first but grew apprehensive.  He approached it slowly, as though it were an animal in a box or a cave that he didn’t want to disturb or discover.

As he got closer, he could see his arrow, straight and true from the center of the target, biting into the apple of the bullseye.

He swallowed a disappointment he had not expected, breathing slowly through his nose.  He heard footsteps as McCree jogged up behind him.

“Quite a shot,” McCree said.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Hanzo said.

McCree shrugged. “Maybe I’m impressed often.”

Hanzo shook his head and walked to the other target.  As he looked over the paper, an embarrassed blush spread.

The target had six holes in a straight line leading to the bullseye, like the hour hand of a clock at high noon.  Even more impressive, each shot was perfectly lined up in each of the rings, equidistant and even.  

Stiff felt brushed against Hanzo’s arm, as McCree pressed his hat towards him.

“Looks like I was short of the bullseye,” he said.

“I cannot accept this!?” Hanzo said.  He stepped away, pushing the hat back towards McCree.

“And why not?” McCree said, but he returned his hat to his head, cocking it back slightly.  This close to the light, his eyes sparkled.

“You clearly made all of your shots, even if they were not the shots we agreed.  A trophy would be unearned.”

“But you  also clearly won,” McCree said, stepping towards Hanzo.  Hanzo in turn, walked backwards, until he hit the railing.  Ocean spray misted his back as a wave crashed against the cliffside.

“According to the terms of the contest I suppose,” he said, cautiously.  McCree smiled at him devilishly, his face mostly shadowed as the lights hit him from behind.

“Then I reckon you earned a different reward.”

McCree closed the gap until they were nearly pressed together.  Hanzo kept both hands on the railing.  His legs shook.

“Would you like that?” McCree asked.

He smelled like tanned leather, and the faint touch of whiskey.  His beard was a week overgrown, and wild, like him. Hanzo wondered what it would feel like rubbing against his neck, down his chest, or against the inside of his thigh.  

Cautiously, Hanzo nodded.

McCree smirked, and fell to his knees.  He kept his gaze firmly on Hanzo’s face, while Hanzo looked away, only seeing each progressive movement out of the corner of his eye.  He hissed as the tips of metal fingers touched his waist, and McCree cooed.

“Sorry if they’re cold.  They warm up fast, I promise,” he said.  To prove it, he slid the same icy hand up Hanzo’s sides, leaving a chilled, taunting trail.  By the time McCree reached his back, and the fingers dug into the muscle, Hanzo was aching for something harder.

The other hand teased him as well, making small movements on his upper thigh.  It was small where the other was big; delicate where the other was distinct.  They were complimentary parts; one italics and the other bold.

McCree reached for his waistband.  True to his word, his hand was warmer now.  He pulled, slipping underneath and hooking the underwear away.  A cold breeze slipped through the new opening, causing another shiver.

McCree paused, withdrawing slightly.  “Do you want me to stop?”

Hanzo finally looked down.  McCree was staring at him, his eyes soft with worry.  His hat was falling backwards, showing more of his face as it pulled the shaggy, unkempt mess of hair away.  

“No,” he said.  “Keep going.”

With a trademark grin, McCree’s fingers curled into a fist and then pulled, taking the underwear with it.  The fabric caught against Hanzo’s hard cock as it descended, drawing it back like a tree branch in the middle of a path.

McCree leaned forward, kissing Hanzo’s stomach where the bone pressed against skin.  Hanzo stifled a moan, but the sharp gasp and tension drove McCree further.  His breath hovered across his skin, following up his side and then circling back towards his abdomen.  With another tug, the underwear was pulled away, and his dick sprung back, colliding against McCree’s chest.

With his newly free hand, McCree reached up and grabbed Hanzo’s cock, slowly stroking it.  Hanzo fell backwards, leaning against the guardrail.  A stiff breeze flew up the side of the building and blew across his back, as McCree made his legs buckle.

“Enjoying yourself?” McCree asked.

“You’re clearly well practiced,” Hanzo said.

McCree shrugged. “We all pass the time somehow.”

Another clammy breeze blew up the side of the cliff.  

“Cold?” McCree asked.

“A bit.” Hanzo said.

McCree chuckled again.  “Well, I can do something about that.”

Hanzo had a second to wonder before McCree leaned forward, and his cock was surrounded by warmth.  McCree was slow, and deliberate.  He tilted his head just so, and the curve of Hanzo’s cock followed his throat until his nose was buried against his tender groin.

Out of instinct, Hanzo grabbed at McCree’s head, knocking his hat to the ground.  His hair was sleek, and pressed flat.  Hanzo buried his hands in it, soft and thick. 

McCree pulled away until he was just swallowing the tip.  He ran his tongue against the underside of his head and then dove forward, riding the gasp he drew from Hanzo until it was a deep moan.

“Are you… also self… taught in this?” Hanzo said.  McCree looked up at him, mouth half full of cock, and winked before going back to work.

Hanzo felt a throbbing pressure build and recede within him, like an animal coaxed out of its shelter.  Hanzo tightened his grip, using the hair as a handle as McCree surrendered control.  With his other hand in place, he thrust, pulling McCree to meet his hips.  The animal emerged, roared throughout his body, and then charged forward.

Hanzo pulled McCree away just as he began to shoot ropes of thick, bitter cum.  The first and longest landed across McCree’s jaw, leaving a pearly mark that dripped through his beard like webbing, while the rest sprayed across his chest, and then dribbled onto the concrete below them.

Hanzo shuttered, milking the last few drops of cum and wiping away the saliva.  McCree leaned back and hummed, running his hands up Hanzo’s legs and around his sides, easing away tension frozen in place by his orgasm, like smoke dispelled from a room with a waving hand.

He ran his finger across his chin, wiping the thickest parts of the cum out of his beard.  “So, do think I hit the mark?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this leave a comment or tell me on [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/dorianauthor) or [My Tumblr](https://dorianflynn.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


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